


The Study

by chasingtheskyline



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mama Bear Hecate Hardbroom, Pain, Post-Season/Series 02, Psychological Trauma, our favorite marshmallow bondage bat goes all goopy for her favorite, this is literally just a chat I don't know what I'm doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 02:21:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15786972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingtheskyline/pseuds/chasingtheskyline
Summary: A month has passed since disaster last struck Cackle's, and Esmerelda is having trouble re-acclimating, to say the least. She is more than surprised, therefore, when Miss Hardbroom invites her to tea.





	The Study

**Author's Note:**

> This was really fun to write, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

 Esmerelda Hallow had stood face-to-face with this door many times, with its etched nameplate reading ‘Miss Hardbroom, Deputy Headmistress’, but not at all since what they were calling her ‘incident’. She found the familiarity and comfort with which she once viewed the door ironic, as it was imposing now, cold and unsure, like a cat sussing out a stranger. If it were to be touched, Esmerelda thought, it would retreat, and not let her in. She let out a long, wavering sigh. It was half-whimper, really, but no one could know that, least of all her sisters.

The room beyond that door, when she was top of her class and not a shaking mess far behind the others, had hosted her for tea every Thursday afternoon at four, and she passed many pleasant weekend lunches within its walls, helping to mark papers or organize books. She and Miss Hardbroom didn't talk much then, but the silence passed was calm, even cordial. When Miss Hardbroom did have something to say—a pertinent bit of news, perhaps, or a retelling of the latest escapades in second-year potions—it was always said well, and with the choicest words possible. Esmerelda would respond in kind, and her skill was well-respected by the Deputy Headmistress. Now, Esmerelda didn’t know what she would find, things had changed so much in the six months that had elapsed since their last meeting like this. But Miss Hardbroom had called her down this Thursday at four, just like all the others previous, and she expected punctuality. So, Esmerelda gave two sharp raps on the regal, untouchable door, with a bit of a flinch.

The door opened with a loose wave of Miss Hardbroom’s hand as she sat at her desk, looking icily at some document. “Esmerelda. You’re early.”

 “You wanted to see me, Miss Hardbroom?” This was so unlike her. Standing there, fidgeting, trying to breathe but finding herself unable to as she entered the room on jellied legs.

 This did not escape the notice of the Deputy Headmistress. “Yes. Sit.”

Miss Hardbroom’s study was warm and richly carpeted, a large fire on the hearth to ward off the late-November chill. The stately hurricane lamp sat on a satin-lined dip in the shelf that framed the sitting-area, and papers were piled on every available surface. The same black tea service with pastel pink peonies on it that was so painfully familiar to Esmerelda graced the low tea-table, two winged armchairs to either side, upholstered in worn brown leather. Miss Hardbroom always took the chair nearest her desk. Esmerelda took the one opposite, following instinct more than precedent.

Miss Hardbroom rose, laying the document she was marking to one side and opening a drawer in her desk. Esmerelda didn't know exactly what drawer was opened, but the earthy smell that played at her nose revealed the contents—gingerbread, light and sticky. She swallowed the lump in her throat, sniffing, and prayed it didn't have raisins in it.

Miss Hardbroom placed the gingerbread to one side of the teapot and sat down, crossing her legs. There was a pause as she tried to find the words to explain why Esmerelda had been called here—this was not a normal tea. In fact, nothing at all was normal.

Esmerelda snatched the moment. “Should I be mother?” she asked helpfully, as anything was better than the long, dreadful silence.

“No. Sit.” Miss Hardbroom fidgeted with the watch around her neck, a pensive look on her face. Finally, all she said was, “You are eleventh in class, Esmerelda. Of forty-two fourth-year girls.”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom. I’m aware.”

“Through no lack of talent, of course.”

Esmerelda didn’t refute that, no matter how much she wanted to. “Thank you, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Your sister is on probation for her actions, but we feel you have been punished enough.” _More cruelly than anyone ever should have to be punished, much less a child,_ Miss Hardbroom finished in her head.

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Why is it, then,” she said, with as little  accusation in her voice as she could possibly muster, “That you are eleventh in class, of forty-two, when there is no punishment that could be impeding your performance?”

Esmerelda shook her head. _Not this. Not now._ “I’m just...tired.”

Miss Hardbroom clicked her tongue in disbelief and defeat, finally serving tea for them both. “Petronilla Peartree has taken to answering every question I pose, whether she knows the answer or not. It's rather unpleasant, to be honest, to have to correct time and time again a priggish girl with an inflated sense of her own intelligence when there is at least one person who I am positive always knows the answer and can communicate it effectively. You instead sit there pallid, catatonic, unfocused, and do not say anything. Your potions have suffered. While correct, they taste...objectionable, and do not have the power they once did. You certainly never let anything get in your way before—why now?”

Esmerelda sighed, shrunk, took a sip of her tea. The encounter with Agatha pulled the plug on her brain, and she was warming up again, but not without incident. “It’s like I’m...numb.” she answered, her voice as small as her curled-up body. “I can't study. I know what the answer should be, but I can never figure out what it _is_ based on the information I’m given _._ I panic because it's supposed to be easy and yet none of it makes sense, and then I can't breathe. I just shut down. I got my magic back just as I was starting to get used to being Ordinary, and it came back _wrong_. I’m probably not even a proper witch anymore.”

Miss Hardbroom nodded in understanding. She’d seen Esmerelda shaking over her cauldron more times in the past two weeks than she had in the previous three years. It was like she was shaking now, with her hands pressed into her knees and her teeth digging into her lip so hard that she feared the girl might draw blood. Having one’s magic ripped away like that was a concept she couldn't bear to meditate upon, much less experience. She reached over, took a tremulous hand in her own, and placed them both on the table. “You are a _brilliant_ witch, Esmerelda. A brilliant witch who has had quite the ordeal. I’m not surprised that you're having trouble reacclimating,” she said, the sharpness of her tongue melting away with the wet ache of sympathy behind her eyes.

The cool of the marble helped to slow Esmerelda’s breathing, and she continued. “I can't sleep at night because the magic hurts, like growing pains over my whole body, but ten times worse.” She paused, sniffing. “Isn’t this why little witches cry a lot? Because their uncontrolled magic is inflaming their muscles?”

Miss Hardbroom felt a small rush of pride at the apt description. “Yes,” she deadpanned, because of course Esmerelda, the _brilliant_ girl, came to the correct conclusion in such a state. “That is exactly why.” She paused for laughter, and it came. A low, wet chuckle, which she took with great triumph. “You also happen to have the magic of an entire coven inside you, not just one person. You _drained_ the Founding Stone, Esmerelda Hallow. So I would expect the pain to be _eleven_ times worse, not ten.”

Esmerelda sat back, her body aching, her mind done fighting. “I hadn't thought about it that way. Thanks.”

Miss Hardbroom rose from her chair, going over to the mantelpiece and taking down two potions. One was a vibrant, electric scarlet, and the other was periwinkle in its calmest shade. “Pain tincture, and a sleeping potion that I find has the pleasant side effect of helping with melancholy. Take two spoonfuls of each in a cup of cornflower-mint tea before you go to bed. If you awaken at all, I retire at one in the morning and you are welcome to see me before that time.”

It struck Esmerelda that nobody, not even her mother, who doted on her with an intensity that was sometimes overwhelming, had ever given her anything of the sort. Miss Hardbroom took the analgesic syrup and poured some into a metal shot-glass. Esmerelda downed it with the last of her tea. It tasted like raspberry lemonade, thick and sweet and coating her mouth. Exactly like her own potions did not, at least not anymore. She soothed the smack of self-loathing with irony. “Sweet Morgan Le Fay, that’s disgusting. I like the blue cheese and cabbage notes I’ve been getting these days better.”

Miss Hardbroom’s eyes widened for a moment before she realized that the girl opposite was the only student she’d ever taught who had the nerve to tease her. “Eat your gingerbread.”

Esmerelda picked at her slice. It did not contain raisins, even though Miss Hardbroom liked them, and that in itself was a relief. Morgana, the sleekest black cat ever to be loved by a witch, came out from the bedroom and rested both paws on her knee to ask permission to climb into her lap, much to the surprise of her mistress. After a long pause, Miss Hardbroom felt it important, if not pleasant, to ask, “Is there anything else troubling you?”

Esmerelda put her chin in her hand. “I’m not sure if I want to tell you this,” she said, avoiding eye contact by looking down at Morgana’s calm little face, “But having my magic taken away felt like I was being...violated. Even though I gave it willingly as a sacrifice, or something. That’s what Mum says—that I couldn't have known, and that it was brave. If she's right, then why am I like this?”

Miss Hardbroom sighed, closing her eyes. It was perfectly understandable, though more than she thought she would have to deal with at this time. She inhaled sharply in preparation, and mellowed her voice as much as she could again, as her own emotions could not be projected onto Esmerelda’s, no matter how much they wanted to escape through her mouth. “Your magic, Esmerelda,” she began, “Was taken from you under duress and false pretenses, and used to inflict acts of violence upon this school and the people in it. You did not give it willingly. It was not a sacrifice. You’ve been very brave, but that does not erase the fact that this feels like a violation _because it was a violation._ Of your trust, of your autonomy, and of the Code.”

Esmerelda finally looked at her, one hand stroking Morgana’s head, her face pale. “I understand, Miss Hardbroom.” But she knew that understanding something was a long way off from accepting it, and not something that anyone could give to her in a few words. Not even Miss Hardbroom could do that.

So, Esmerelda ate her gingerbread. The silence that passed between them was cordial once more, only broken by the clinking of spoons and the scraping of forks. The Deputy Headmistress was stringent about caffeine consumption, but, noticing how Esmerelda kept glancing at her cup, refilled it with a small smile that could be called affectionate, if one got past the awkwardness with which it was delivered. And Esmerelda remembered how much she _liked_ this, how nice it was. Miss Hardbroom didn't work to make her feel welcome, save for getting gingerbread without raisins. Her company was just enjoyable, her presence comforting.

“Do you need any help with marking?” Esmerelda asked.

“No thank you. I completed the first years’ yesterday.”

“Plans for the weekend?”

“More marking, and a business brunch with Miss Pentangle. Are you going to keep asking questions?”

Esmerelda snorted, taking the hint. “No.”

The corners of Miss Hardbroom’s eyes crinkled as she asked a question of her own. “Is the pain tincture working?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Hecate put down her cup, her lips twitching upward in pride as she made the offer that was on her mind. “I can teach you how to prepare it yourself at some point. It’s an old potion passed down in my family—13th century. Consider it a celebration of your triumphant return to the Academy.”

Esmerelda smiled. “I’d like that.”

And though everything had changed since they’d last had a meeting like this, suddenly it was like nothing had changed at all.

  
  


 


End file.
